a knife in the back is worth two in the heart
by midwestern-duchess
Summary: "The truth is messy. It's raw and uncomfortable. You can't blame people for preferring lies." -Holly Black (In a world where Overwatch's fall was orchestrated like some terrible symphony, a doctor and soldier with tattered pride and bruised morale sift through the wreckage to find the truth. Post-canon.)
1. one

_"_ _Alejandra!"_ a mother calls up the stairs.

"In a _minute!"_ the girl yells back. She sits in her bed, half-cocooned in her sheets, wide brown eyes latched onto the ancient holo-vid display balanced precariously on her dresser, surrounded by books and stuffed animals and random knickknacks.

 _"_ _Still no word on the location of Dr. Angela Ziegler,"_ the man on the news continues. The holo-vid scrambles for a moment, flickering in and out of existence, and the girl hastens out of her bed, nearly tripping on her tangled sheets as she anxiously smacks the side of the projector and the image sputters back.

She grips the dresser, eyes so close to the hologram that the watery light makes her irises shine.

 _"_ _The doctor was last seen leaving her hospital in Switzerland on Tuesday,"_ the anchorman drones on _. "There has been no word from her since, and she has missed four days of work. Something her coworkers say she has not done in the fifteen years she has worked there."_

 ** _"_** ** _Alejandra!"_** Her mother's voice has risen to a shout.

 _"_ _¡_ _Ya voy!"_ she flings back, voice slightly shrill as she yanks on a tank top and throws her thick hair into a ponytail. The holographic news continues playing even as she darts from the room, but the only one listening is a poster bearing an image of a group of heroes titled _Los Protectores_ —a woman armed with luminous angel wings identical to the one shown on-screen.

-0-

 _"…_ _Dr. Ziegler is of course famous for her work in the medical field, and somewhat infamous for her role as Mercy in the organization Overwatch."_

"Athena, pull up that news station," Winston orders, frowning as he looks up from his tinkering. He'd been listening off and on, mostly absorbed in his work, but the last line finally grabs his attention. He pushes his tools aside, adjusting his glasses as he spins around in his chair, frowning expectantly as his screen is filled with the image of an elegant blonde woman.

"Winston?" the AI asks as the great ape continues to stare at the screen, his eyes wide behind his spectacles.

Winston doesn't answer. He just stares at the screen, unease and panic uncurling in the pit of his stomach as fear and concern kick his heart rate up.

"Dial Tracer," he orders, suddenly typing furiously as he pulls up a map of Switzerland, eyes narrowing. "And get me any contact we have on Mercy."

-0-

 _"…_ _There are no leads to her whereabouts at this time, and given Dr. Ziegler's dedication to Overwatch, it is possible she was targeted by some of the organization's old enemies, such as Talon."_

The man's arm glints metallically in the noonday sun as he lifts a tumbler to his lips, sneering as he listens to the report at a bar.

The bartend glances at him as she continues wiping out glasses, quirking a brow.

"You knew her, didn't you?" she asks, jerking her chin at the television playing on the wall. More images of the doctor are being shown, and the man just grunts noncommittally.

"I knew a lot of people," McCree grinds out, downing his drink. He chuckles humorlessly. "Not so much now."

-0-

 _"…_ _Dr. Ziegler lives alone, and is reportedly a very private person. Her house has been searched by authorities and has been untouched since she went missing."_

"Oi, ya gonna buy one of 'em?" a surly shopkeep asks, boldly staring down a large man who is standing before a shelf crammed full with old, poorly-repaired holo-vid displays all projecting the same news station.

The man doesn't turn.

The shopkeep gnaws angrily on a toothpick.

"I _said,"_ he drawls, reaching out to slap the man's shoulder and get his attention. "Are you gonna _buy_ one of 'em?"

The man turns his head just enough to regard the shopkeep over his shoulder. The shopkeep sees his own terrified reflection in the man's visor before his large, calloused hand is shooting up to curl around the smaller man's fist, crushing the bones in his hand as the man shrieks.

After a few second of crunching bones and horrified wails, the man releases the shopkeep and calmly turns to walk away.

The shopkeep stares after him, clutching his ruined hand to his chest, wide eyes taking in the _76_ printed across his back.

-0-

"I know, Winston, I'm watching it right now!"

The young woman paces the floor of her flat, gritting her teeth as she holds the phone to her ear, the news playing in the background.

 _"_ _Anyone with any information is implored to come forward…"_ the anchorman reports as the woman stalks past the hologram again, chewing her lip as the person on the other end of the line talks back.

"Of course I've already called Lúcio!" she cries, throwing one hand out in a gesture of exasperation. "I've called everyone who answers their phones! Which, in case you didn't know, is about four people! _Including_ us!"

 _"_ _Dr. Ziegler is still regarded as one of the greatest champions of medicine of her generation, and even following Overwatch's fallout, continued to be a paragon of aid and healing."_

"How would _Mei_ know?" Lena demands, scowling at the floor. Her chronal accelerator pulses softly where it's strapped to her chest as she continues to rant. "She's in Antarctica! She probably talks to _penguins_ more than people!"

She stills her movements, chewing moodily on her lip as she glares at the holo-vid, half-listening to Winston, half to the news report.

 _"_ _There is still no word on whether this is a misunderstanding, or a planned attack on one of the world's most recognizable heroes. So far, there has been no ransom demands or threats of any kind. It seems no one—good or bad—knows where Dr. Ziegler is."_

"D'ya reckon it was _her?"_ she asks lowly, eyebrows slanting down as she thinks of her most hated Talon agent. She scoffs at Winston's response. "She killed a pacifist leader in cold blood with a smile on her face. I really don't think she'd lose much sleep over taking out _Mercy."_

She sighs, finally tapping a command into the control panel in the wall and switching the holo-vid off.

"Fine," she replies, a determined glint in her eye. "I'll get my guns."

-0-

"I found something that might pique your interest."

Reaper glances up at the voice—soft and smooth and layered with an almost intoxicating accent that he's always had a healthy tolerance for—to find a newspaper being offered to him by lilac fingers.

"It's in French," is his only response, dull and unimpressed as he drops his gaze again, deftly reassembling his gun where its guts are spread around him.

Widowmaker scoffs under her breath, ocher eyes rolling at his incompetence.

"You are as uncultured as you are intolerable," she tells him tartly.

He just grunts noncommittally at that. They both know Reaper's far more intelligent than he cares to advertise.

"You remember the French word for doctor, yes?" she asks, a coy lilt to her voice that snags his attention immediately. She tosses the paper on the table, watching as it spins across the smooth surface until he stretches out a gloved hand to still it.

 _ **Docteur Célèbre est Toujours Manquant** _ the headline blares. Below is a huge, front-page sized image of a woman sporting a halo-shaped headpiece and smiling faintly while holding a staff in her slender fingers. Widowmaker smirks as she watches Reaper quietly push his weapon aside and reach for the paper.

"I thought so," she remarks smugly. "Men are so predictable."

"Must've been why killing Gérard was so easy," Reaper fires back, masked gaze never leaving the paper as he tries to translate what he can.

Widowmaker just makes a noise of disgust and turns on her heel to stalk off. "I will kill you someday, Reaper," she calls over her shoulder.

"You can try," he mutters back, too low for her to hear, fully engrossed in the article.

There's no sound in their underground hideout save for clicks and snaps as Widowmaker examines her equipment. They aren't partners by any stretch, but as long as their goals align, they can be trusted to not kill the other in their sleep.

For now.

"Was this Talon?" he asks lowly.

Widowmaker shrugs, calmly checking over her rifle. "Doubtful, but not impossible," she answers, unruffled by his dark and deadly tone. "The good doctor has never been a threat, and even if she somehow became one, she's hardly going to put up a fight." She glances over her shoulder to grace Reaper with a vampire smile. "She may wear armor, but angels are not soldiers."

He looks up, skeptical. "Wouldn't you know?" he demands. "Talon's favorite pet and all."

She snorts elegantly under her breath. "I do not control Talon, despite your best efforts to blame me as if I do." She turns the rifle over in her slim fingers. "Eliminating Mercy would be a low-ranking mission—they wouldn't waste my time with something so simple."

Her lips twitch in amusement as she hears his chair screech against the concert floor as she forces himself to his feet. She loves riling him—loves reminding him that as much as he might like to think of himself as an unfeeling ghost, he still has very visceral reactions.

Emotions are a weakness she is not plagued with, but thrills instilling in others.

He towers over her, all tall, dark, and foreboding.

"Bold words for someone who was knocked on her ass by a ten year-old," he tells her lowly.

She smiles up at him, utterly undaunted. "Bold reaction for someone who allegedly wants to kill the good doctor," she murmurs.

Reaper just shifts his weight, bleeding into her personal space—the smoky shadows that swirl out from his footfalls curl around her legs. She doesn't even spare a glance.

"You are not nearly as frightening as you think you are," Widowmaker tells him softly. Her words are a caress—disarmingly sweet and honeyed. Reaper just stares her down from behind his mask.

"Talon wiped your memories," he states bluntly. "You don't remember the reputation I carried when I ran with your husband." Her eyes flash like lightning the way they always do when he brings up Gérard. She pulls back from him, gaze deadly. "That's fine," he goes on, turning his back on her. "I don't mind reminding you."

 _"_ _Je vais te détruire, fantôme,"_ she hisses after him.

"Go fuck yourself, Amélie," he replies, reaching out to collect his weapon and the newspaper, tucking it away in the folds of his coat.

Widowmaker sneers. "Perhaps I'll kill that angel of yours," she snarls, switching to English so she knows he understands her threat.

"I'm a faster draw than you and we both know it," Reaper retorts. He strides out, trench cloak swirling at his heels. "I'll kill her myself."

* * *

HERE WE FUCKIN GO

So this is a thing. I want to make it multiple chapters (obviously I mean it's about Reaper and Mercy and like one half of that mess is missing so clearly I have more planned) but I'm only going to continue it if you guys are digging it. I'll probably put up one more chapter later this week and then kind of gauge the response and decide whether I should keep it or kill it.

Anyway, I made it pretty clear in the tags, but this ain't shippy. Not even like vague Purgatory shippy. It's just literally about /them/ and only /them/ so I'd feel like I'm misleading people if I didn't pair Mercy and Reaper off. There will be no hot and heavy makeout scenes. Reaper's wearing a mask how the fuck would that even work you know he sleeps in that fuckin thing.

Also, shoutout to anyone who's been reading and commenting and leaving kudos. Y'all are the real MVPs. If it weren't for your kickass feedback, I'd have slunk back to the Fire Emblem fandom by now with my tail between my legs. (I love you FE I'm just super into Overwatch rn I'll come back for you someday I swear)

The point is: you guys are the reason I'm still hanging around, so thank you. I've gotten so many touching messages from people saying my fics have made them want to get back into drawing, or inspired them to try writing fic and that shit just melts my lil heart.

Okay enough sap I suck at it time for the #spon

Main Tumblr: midwestern-duchess

Writing Tumblr: dominodebt

Have a good one, team! As always, feel free to drop me a line if you've got something on your mind!


	2. two

Being dead is a pain in the ass.

Reaper loves to twist that old knife of Widowmaker's unnatural skin color—for a heartless assassin, she's incredibly sensitive about that fact—mocking the way she'll never be able to blend in. Her lilac skin is luminescent in the light—eye-catching and unnatural.

But Amélie has learned to adapt—of course she has, she was _programmed_ to—and with the right clothing and the cover of darkness, she can traverse the world without so much a second glance.

Reaper—the resident six foot shadow—has a bit of a harder time.

Unmarked Talon vehicles can only get him so far—he's never exactly tried, but he has a feeling he won't make it through customs—so he calls Sombra.

She answers on the last ring, just because she can.

 _"Sííí?"_ she draws the greeting out, a smirk in her voice. "Was there something you needed?"

"Get me transport to Switzerland," he orders, voice curt. "Now."

She laughs, and Reaper can picture it perfectly—Sombra reclining back in her chair, face awash in the glow of her monitors, eyes gleaming in the light, teeth bared in a grin.

She's going to make this as long and painful as possible. Reaper swears under his breath.

"A _please_ wouldn't kill you, you know," she scolds him. "Us shadows have manners too."

"Get me the transport," he snarls again. He wants to cut the connection, but knows Sombra—annoying as she might be—is under no obligation to do what he says. She takes the occasional odd job from Talon, and in the field, she serves under him and Widowmaker. But other than that? Sombra's free to do what she wants.

It's a fact she is _well_ aware of.

 _"Hmmm,"_ she hums to herself in contemplation as Reaper paces the empty hanger. Talon's various planes—jets, fighters, bombers, all unmarked—sit still in their spaces. He can't get them up and running without the aid of a Talon agent—he doesn't have any of the codes, he's a mercenary and he's fucking _dead_ —but Sombra can bypass any security they throw at her.

"Think a little faster," he growls, voice rattling out from beneath his mask as he scans the wide hanger again.

"So demanding," Sombra scoffs, but he hears the telltale click of keys, so he knows she's going to play along. "Is that how you plan on luring Dr. Ziegler out? Hm? Just going to boss her around until she listens to you?"

Reaper goes still, and he swears he can hear Sombra's smirk.

 _"Pobrecito,"_ she coos. "Did I touch a nerve?"

"Do you know where she is?" Reaper asks instead, voice rough. He hears chatter from the far end of the hanger and reaches into his coat, clawed fingers curling around one of his shotguns.

Sombra hums again, but it's much less gleeful than before. That shit-eating grin of hers is long gone.

 _"No,"_ she remarks, annoyed. "Not that I've looked very hard. If I _tried—"_

"Sombra." His voice whips out low and fast. Footfalls echo throughout the hanger. "The _plane."_

She curses at him. "Give me a _second!"_ she snaps. "You _just_ called—"

Reaper stops listening as the voices grow louder, gritting his teeth as he pulls out a single shotgun.

A man bearing Talon's emblem on the shoulder of his coat ambles into sight, talking to a second man at his side. Both sport tool belts and oil-darkened hands.

Mechanics.

Two cracks of his firearm and they drop. A siren immediately starts to wail, and Reaper vanishes in a swirl of smoke as red lights begin to flash, reflecting off the polished bodies of the planes.

He reappears a few feet away, at the hatch of a particularly sleek-looking jet. He lifts his weapon once more and with the briefest of aim, takes out three cameras, two speakers, and a handful of flashing lights. The hanger falls mercifully dark and silent.

"Subtle," Sombra drawls over the comm. "Really. They should get you in on more stealth missions. You're a natural."

Reaper just makes a disgusted noise in reply, throwing his spent weapon away. It clatters to the ground and spins out of sight. He turns to face the jet again, scowling at the closed hatch.

"Sombra."

"I mean, in theory, dead guys should have the ultimate element of surprise, right?"

 _"Sombra."_

 _"Relajate,"_ she answers, mocking his low, gravely voice. "I'm all over it."

More voices can be heard, and Reaper whirls around, pulling out a fresh pair of shotguns as the yawning door of the hanger slowly begins to close.

"Sombra, the door—"

"I _know,"_ she snips back at him, and Reaper listens to her furious typing as Talon guards rush out into the hanger.

He dispatches the first round of guard easily, and while he doesn't have breath to hold, feels a loosening in his chest when he hears the hatch of the jet release with a hiss.

Reaper releases his physical form once more as a second wave of guard burst into the hanger. Shots pass through his amorphous body as his smoky form fills the cockpit, and the hatch lowers as bullets ping off the body of the jet.

Back inside, Reaper reassembles himself, flipping on the various switches and buttons. The jet hums to life under his control, and he looks up to see the hanger door is creaking back up, exposing the night sky.

"And you were worried I couldn't do it," Sombra remarks archly. Reaper eases the jet out of the hanger, and Talon guards crowd around, shouting at him to stop.

"Flip them off," she tells him, an excited lilt to her voice. She has a camera somewhere. Of course she does.

"No," he answers firmly.

"Make your shadow flip them off," she presses.

 _"No,"_ he says again, and guns the engine.

She mutters about it for a moment, but mostly leaves him in peace as he works the craft into the air.

"You dismantled their exterior turrets?" he asks, glancing down at the outside of Talon's base.

"Have you been shot out of the sky yet?" Sombra asks tartly. A beat of silence. The jet cruises on, unhindered. "There you go."

He grunts noncommittally. She heaves a very put-upon sigh.

"You're _welcome,"_ Sombra tells him sourly. She pauses, knowing better than to expect a thanks. "Reaper?"

"What?" he grouses back.

"Do you have any idea what you're doing?" Her tone drips incredulity. "Because this seems like the sort of thing that could go to hell _real_ fuckin' quick."

There's something in her voice that nags at the phantom. She doesn't sound worried or concerned, but neither is it a careless question. Not quite curiosity, but something that clearly begs more than a simple answer.

He frowns from beneath his mask. Who knows what the little shadow is thinking.

Does he know what he's doing? Mercy is missing. _Finding her_ was a knee-jerk response. Automatic. Thoughtless. Not even Widowmaker had questioned it.

"No one's gonna kill her but me," he answers, and it isn't a lie. He _will_ kill Mercy. She deserves it, after what she did to him. But his response sports a hole. It's not the whole truth.

He won't know the rest until he finds her.

"Whatever," Sombra says, clearly indifferent, and the spell is broken. He hears her chair creak as she leans back in it, sipping nosily on a drink. "Is _have fun_ the right sentiment?"

"Stop talking," Reaper snaps back.

"Have fun then. Try not to die." Reaper tries to cut the connection before she can make the obvious, stupid joke, but he can't quite hit the button before she chirps out, _"Again."_

He grumbles under his breath the whole way to Zürich.

-0-

The house is guarded with police tape, but the only person who seems to be doing any guarding is asleep at the wheel of the police vehicle parked in Mercy's driveway.

Reaper considers killing him before just skulking past. This case is cold. Assuming Mercy is still alive, she's not going to show up here.

She's a lot of things, but _stupid_ has never been something attributed to the good doctor.

He calls the shadows to him, vanishing in a whirlwind of smoke as he slips inside the house.

It's cold, he notes, when he reclaims his physical form. He doesn't _feel_ quite as much as he used to, but he still makes a point to note changes in his environment—leftover habits, he supposes—and frowns at the distinct chill.

It makes sense—who's been home to turn on the heat?—but the solidification of this fact makes him wary. Where the hell _is_ she?

He steps inside, glancing around from behind his mask. Mercy's house is as spotless as her infirmary used to be—though he admits that could be because she's been missing for over a week.

His gaze sweeps over her modest furnishings. Of course she'd live frugally. She never told him exactly how much money her research had brought her, but he knows it had to be astronomical.

Reaper snorts darkly, moving further into the house. She probably donated it all to the Jack Morrison Memorial fund.

It's been a while since he's been this close to her space, he notes idly, drifting through the empty house. Back in Overwatch's prime, they were constantly crossing paths. He'd be in the infirmary—her space—towering over her as she tended to his soldiers. She'd be in the armory—his space—easily keeping pace with him as she rattled off supplies they needed.

They got tangled and twisted and caught up in each other's presence to the point where even years after Overwatch's fallout—years after what she _did_ to him—some small part of him named Commander Gabriel Reyes quietly looks over his shoulder, wondering where his kindhearted, blonde shadow has gotten off to.

The door slams. Reaper very nearly dissipates on instinct.

"…yeah, three _hours_ out of my way," a high, clear voice drifts into the house, and Reaper snaps to attention, dissolving into smoke as footfalls draw closer.

"Oh _whatever_ Lúcio," the girl says, words coated in what sounds like playful annoyance. "I don't do favors for everyone, you know."

She steps into the room across from where Reaper lurks in the shadows, tracking her movements.

The girl is small—long hair that hangs past her shoulders and striking brown eyes. Pink marks stand out starkly on her cheekbones as she strolls aimlessly about the room, chattering into the phone. She's dressed finely—woolen pea coat, top-of-the-line boots. A lavaliere with some kind of gem dangling off the end hangs from her neck, winking in the low light.

Reaper watches, expression drawn tight beneath his mask, hands full with his weapons.

She laughs—bright and cheerful, nose scrunching up with the action.

"Don't make me choose between you and Lena, Lúcio," she teases, smiling to herself. "You might not like the answer."

Reaper watches as she pokes around, trailing after her as tendrils of smoke as she peeks in the rooms, glances in closets, stands up on tiptoe to see onto shelves.

Part of him is wary on principle—no one comes to the house of a missing woman with good intentions—but most of him is dubious as he watches her chat on the phone like a teenager at the mall. Who _is_ this girl?

He makes to move back—he can't follow her around forever, he can't manipulate his shadow that long—but the floor creaks under his reformed foot, the sound carrying clearly through the empty house.

In a split-second, the girl's turned on her heel, gun smoothly drawn from within the folds of her coat, eyes set, some charm swinging from the butt of the pistol.

"Who's there?" she demands, voice cold and firm—void of the playfulness it had held moments before.

Reaper's gone before she even turned—you'd think he'd have this transition from phantom to physical down after being _dead_ for more than a fucking _decade_ —and clutches the darkness to himself as he loiters like a ghost in the shadows of a grandfather clock.

Silence reigns. She stands defiantly in the center of the room—phone slack at her side, still illuminated, the person on the other line still faintly heard from the speaker. She lifts her chin just slightly, eyes narrowing. The pink marks on her face curve as she works her jaw.

The hand that holds the gun is absolutely steady. Reaper's hands ghost towards his shotguns, but he knows killing her isn't the answer. Whoever this girl is, she's tied to Mercy, and that makes her more useful alive.

After a moment, she seems to relax, though her eyes remain sword sharp.

Still eyeing the room suspiciously, she puts the phone back to her ear, slipping her weapon back within her coat.

"Lúcio? Yeah, I'm here. I'm _fine._ I don't know…" her gaze skirts over the space where Reaper hides. Twice. "Maybe it was a ghost."

She pulls from the room, continuing to speak into the phone.

"Yeah, better tell Lena." She glances over her shoulder, expression dark with distrust. "This is probably better suited for Tracer."

Reaper listens to the door swing shut before he reemerges from the smoke.

 _Lena Oxton._

He breaks a wooden chair with one strike of his fist, seething, before making his exit.

* * *

anyway so I kinda forgot was a thing mostly because I much prefer ao3 but here we are!

you can find me on tumblr at dominodebt or midwestern-duchess!


	3. three

"A _ghost?"_

Hana huffs with frustration, throwing herself back onto the enormous beanbag chair in the corner of her hotel room. It's shaped like her rabbit logo, complete with two long ears and cartoon face. It's one of the items she always brings with her when she travels.

"I said _like_ a ghost," she corrects as she sinks into the plush chair. She doesn't like that doubtful tone in the other woman's voice.

The woman in question is Tracer herself, perched on the edge of the hotel's large king bed, in full battle regalia. Which, of course, is just her battered bomber jacket and a pair of goggles that hang around her neck.

The ex-pilot considers Hana's words, resting her elbows on her knees, lips pursed in thought.

"I'm telling you, Lena, there was _something_ in that house," Hana insists. "It was cold, too. _Freezing."_

"It's Switzerland in winter," Tracer mutters, eyes still faraway and unfocused as her minds spins. "Of course it was cold."

Hana groans, letting her head fall back in annoyance. "You _know_ what I _mean,"_ she insists.

Tracer says nothing. Hana just huffs again, sitting back up in her chair.

"When does Lúcio get in?" she asks.

"Told 'im not to come," Tracer replies, resting her chin on her folded hands. "Too many agents in one place. It'd draw attention."

Hanna pulls a face. "So? Lúcio and I draw attention wherever we go anyway."

Tracer's lips quirk in a small smile. She forgot how amusing Hana's casual arrogance could be.

"Overwatch is already being dragged out 'cause Mercy's missing," she explains. "As far as anyone knows, I'm basically Overwatch's last active agent, and you two are pretty obvious supporters. It's too suspicious. Winston's trying to hush this up as best he can."

Hana quirks a brow. "He knows it's been on national news for like, a full twenty-four hours, right?"

Tracer just gives a breathless laugh, shaking her head. "I said he was _trying,_ Hana, not succeeding." She looks up to offer the other woman a tired smile. "Important distinction when dealing with Overwatch."

Hana just takes Tracer's explanation in silence. A moment passes, both women wrapped up in their thoughts.

"Lena?"

"Yeah?"

Hana hesitates, biting her lip. "Do you…do you think she's—?"

"No," Tracer responds firmly. "I _don't."_

"But Widowmaker—"

"They wouldn't send Widowmaker for something like this," Tracer mutters, jaw taut. "She's reserved for high-level missions—high profile stuff. Things they can't afford to mess up."

Hana arches an eyebrow. "And the literal _angel_ of Overwatch doesn't qualify?" she asks dubiously.

Tracer leans back on the bed, straightening back up and stretching her arms above her head, listening to the joints pop. She'd come over to meet up with Hana in Lucerne, guns blazing, only to realize there was still a bit of detective work to do before they knew exactly who was responsible.

"I dunno, Hana. Widowmaker's been keeping a pretty low profile—probably 'cause she knows I'm damn well lookin' for her—and it isn't her style anyway."

Hana pulls a face. "Her _style?"_ she scoffs. _"That's_ what you're basing this on?"

Tracer gives her a flat look in turn. "Right. Because _you've_ certainly never sacrificed solid safety for dramatic flair. Not _."_

Hana's expression sours at Tracer's sarcasm. _"I'm_ not a Talon assassin," she points out. "And _you_ should try staying on the top-viewed videos list, okay? It's not exactly the _easiest_ thing—"

Hana breaks off as her laptop screen lights up and a perky pop tune plays from the speakers. Both women look up to see where the laptop sits on the corner desk of the hotel, and Hana hauls herself rather ungracefully out of the beanbag to plop down in the chair, making it spin lightly as she quickly accepts the incoming call.

Her screen is suddenly filled with the image of a large, spectacle-clad ape.

"Hana?" he asks, peering into the screen. "Are you there?"

"Winston!" Tracer appears over the gamer's shoulders in a flash of blue light, one hand braced on the desk to lean in towards the screen. "What'dja find?"

"Oh, Lena! You got there rather quickly." Winston straightens his glasses as he leafs through the documents that clutter his desk. "Very good, very good."

"So what's up then?" Hana asks expectantly, propping her chin in her palm, quirking an eyebrow. "Because right now all we've got is a maybe-ghost and dramatic flair."

Winston cocks his head, mulling over her words, before seeming to pick up on the healthy coat of sarcasm she's given them. He shakes his head.

"I don't have much, but it's a starting point," he begins, images from a second monitor reflecting off his glasses. "Lena, do you remember that talk we had a few months back?"

"Maybe," Tracer allows, frowning in thought as she hangs on the back of Hana's chair. "We've talked about a lot of stuff, Winston, could you be more specific?"

The great ape grumbles to himself on the other line, clearly gathering his thoughts. He might be able to categorize and store away every conversation he's ever had, and Tracer's sure _he_ knows _exactly_ what talk he's referencing, but she's gonna need a bit more.

Her lips twitch in a smile. She'd missed him. She'd missed all of them, honestly.

"The one about the shadowy figure spotted in France," Winston explains, and the image of his face shrinks as he shares his screen with Hana's. Both women peer at what looks to be a news report, compete with images of a very blurry, very dark, humanoid figure.

Hana purses her lips, frowning at the poor image quality. "Is this like, a Loch Ness Monster kind of thing?" she asks. "Because I'm not very convinced."

"The Loch Ness Monster didn't have a death toll, love," Tracer murmurs, skimming the article with a taut jaw. "Twelve dead."

"I've been trying to track him," Winston explains, and there's the faint sound of typing as he calls up more images. "He's a slippery one, whoever he is."

"Looks kinda smokey to me," Tracer murmurs, frowning at the various pictures that appear to be of nothing but a cloud of dark smoke. "Is this…him?"

"It is," Winston affirms. "I've watched him on security cameras. He can somehow release his physical form and just…dissipate."

"That can't be real," Hana protests. "It's some kind of special effect."

"But why would he doctor security footage?" Tracer asks lowly, still studying the images.

"Dramatic flair?" Hana suggests, and Tracer gives her a sideways glance, eyes narrowed.

"What's on his face, Winston?" the ex-pilot asks instead, looking back to the pictures. She taps the screen with a slender figure, zooming in on one of them. "Some kind of mask?"

"As far as I can tell," Winston agrees. "I believe it's a barn owl."

"An _owl?"_ Hana wrinkles her nose. "Why?"

"Owls hold incredible sway in some cultures," Winston explains.

"Which cultures, specifically?" Tracer asks, though she has a terrible feeling she might already know the answer.

"Mexican, for one," Winston answers. "The barn owl is an omen of death in lots of folklore and superstitions. Picking a mask of a barn owl would be like the equivalent of picking a skull."

"Neat," Hana mutters, looking distinctly uncomfortable. "So what's he got to do with anything?"

Winston pushes his glasses back up his nose. "I believe he's been working with—"

The connection cuts out—the polished black screen reflecting Hana and Tracer's surprised expressions as the laptop seems to just shut down.

 _"Daeche mwoya?"_ Hana's curse rings out in the now-silent hotel as she leans forward to inspect her computer with a critical eye, while Tracer turns around, deftly throwing out her wrists to kick out her weapons.

"That wasn't an accident, was it?" Tracer asks, narrowed eyes sweeping the hotel suite, though she knows that the perpetrator is doubtlessly miles—maybe even countries— away.

"For the amount of money I spent on this?" Hana demands, typing in a few commands to her laptop to boot it up again. "It _better_ not have been."

"See if you can get him back online," Tracer orders, withdrawing her guns and making for the door. "I'll be right back."

-0-

The woman creeps along the scuffed linoleum floor, stepping on the balls of her feet to avoid making a sound.

 _Sneaking_ has never been her strong suit, per se. She hasn't had a need to hide in quite a few years, and even when she _did,_ well…

The Valkyrie suit wasn't designed for stealth.

So Angela Ziegler keeps moving as quietly as she can, Caduceus Blaster held in a white-knuckle grip at her side, blue eyes bright in the near-dark of the Cardiac Catheterization lab.

There are parts of every hospital that never sleep—never shut down. Angela remembers all the years she'd turned down invitations to holiday parties, seasonal gatherings, festive celebrations.

 _"Why can't you come?"_ they'd ask.

She'd just shrug, offer a half-smile. _"Work."_

People still get sick on Christmas. Someone still needs her help at the turn of the New Year.

The Cath lab, however, is one of the departments that follows _somewhat_ regular hours—though what is truly _regular_ at a hospital? Most other working-class individuals would balk at the irregularity of the hours, the occasional lack of a lunch, or break of any kind.

Coming in before the sun's even considered rising. Staying until the moon is tired. Healthcare is not for the faint of heart, in more ways than one might think.

But the area is deserted—as she knew it would be—and so long as she stays well away from emergency rooms and other round-the-clock areas, this should go off without a hitch.

Angela snorts in the gloom. Right. Because she has such a _rich_ history of things going her way.

She glances in the wide, rounded mirror mounted on the wall used to see around corners to avoid collisions with gurneys to ensure the next corridor is clear. She steps carefully into the hallway, back pressed against the wall, weapon pointed at the floor.

She _knows_ it's here somewhere.

It's the most logical place. All her research is here. She all but _lived_ at this hospital.

And if it's _not,_ well…

In the words of an old friend—she's well and truly fucked.

She pauses her walk down the hall, trying to decide where to go first, when her ears twitch at the sound of footsteps. With nowhere to hide, she just whips around, Caduceus Blaster at the ready.

A young woman freezes at the mouth of the hallway Angela now stands in the middle of, her shocked expression visible even from this distance. Angela hastily lowers her weapon. She _knows_ that face.

"Justine?" she calls softly, eyebrows lifted hopefully, smiling slightly to try to invite the young tech over, subtly pushing her blaster further out of sight. "Justine, is that you?"

The woman goes sprinting down the hall.

Swearing under her breath, Angela gives chase.

It doesn't take long—Justine is a flat-footed tech and Angela once did drills with super soldiers—and the young woman cries out as Angela seizes her arm, pulling her back into the shadows.

"Justine," Angela whispers. "What are you _doing?"_

"Let me go!" Justine shouts, twisting uselessly in her grip.

Angela grits her teeth, but does as the young tech asks, releasing her arm and stepping back. She expects Justine to bolt, but the petite brunette seems so surprised that Angela actually did what she asked that she hesitates.

"Dr. Ziegler?" she asks, a tremor in her voice as she rubs her arm. Her voice rushes out then, like she can't decide which absurdity she wants to address first. "What are you—we've been looking—the news said— _you can't bring weapons into the hospital!"_

Angela reaches out to put her pale hands on the younger woman's shoulders, expression very serious.

"Justine. I need you to focus, okay? I am in a very big rush, and I need to get out as quickly as possible."

"But you're _missing!"_ Justine argues in a low, scandalized whisper. "They're going to name Dr. _Müller_ as the Chief of Medicine and he's _awful—"_

Angela's fingers curl into the girl's shoulders, silencing her. "As far as you know, I am still missing," she tells the tech solemnly. "Do you understand? We did not have this conversation—you did not even _see_ me."

Justine swallows hard, blinking rapidly. "But…but the hospital, Dr. Ziegler, when are you—?"

"Do you trust me?" Angela's gaze is razor sharp in the low light of the hallway—a pair of brilliant sapphires gleaming in the near-dark. Intensity rolls off of her in waves as she stands over the younger woman.

 _"Isn't it a bit…much?"_ Morrison had begun, eyebrows pulling together in concern.

He'd promptly been elbowed in the gut by Amari, resulting in a strangled sort of choking noise as both of his hands dropped protectively to his gut. The Egyptian sharpshooter just smiled lightly at the young doctor.

 _"If that is what you want, Doctor, I have no objection,"_ she'd said, accent rolling off her tongue, words warm with respect. Angela had tried not to beam under her praise.

Her eyes had darted to the last person in the room. Gabriel Reyes—a brick wall of a man who stood in the corner, arms folded across his chest as he'd stared her down.

Angela had shifted uncomfortably. That was the thing about Reyes' stare. It wasn't just cold and arresting, but piercing. _Invasive._ Angela watched him watch her—dark eyes tracing over the porcelain armor, the Swiss flag emblazed on her hip. His lips quirked when he reached the halo-shaped headpiece, and she swallowed hard as his gaze played over the wide wings spread behind her, glowing faintly in the dim room.

She'd felt like she was awaiting a sentence when he'd finally let out a breath, broad chest deflating slightly as he relaxed against the wall.

 _"Sure,"_ he'd responded in a casual, throwaway voice that startled her. He shrugged, dark eyes glittering like buckshot from his stance in the shadows. _"Overwatch's angel. Why the hell not?"_

He'd turned then—pushed away from the wall like the matter was closed—leaving Angela struck dumb and listening as Morrison whirled to face him, loudly protesting and grabbing the other man's arm and _really Gabe? Do you **know** the kind of PR nightmare this will cause—?_

 _"I think it suits her,"_ he'd said, deftly cutting off Morrison's complaint. He'd glanced back at her over his shoulder, lips twisted in that unusual smirk Angela could never quite puzzle out. It was joking in nature—a quick, casual tease—but the edges of it were colder, strained.

 _"Doc here can be pretty damn scary when she wants to. The halo's a nice touch."_

And then he'd left, Morrison stomping after him. Amari had walked over, scoffing at that last comment, assuring her that Reyes was an idiot and not worth listening to. Angela's hand had drifted up to touch the curved, metallic headpiece, but Amari had quickly caught her hand, folded her arm neatly into her own, pulling her out of the room, chattering about some silly thing Fareeha had done the other day.

Justine looks up at her—Dr. Angela Ziegler, clad only in a battered white medical coat, deep circles under her eyes giving her an eerie countenance, glaring fiercely in the gloom of the empty hallway.

The Valkyrie suit was armor, but Anglea wasn't just protecting herself.

Reyes was right—she _could_ be damn scary. And the scariest part was she didn't always realize it.

Even scarier—she couldn't always stop.

"Do you trust me?" Angela asks again, voice a rough whisper.

A pause. Angela's stomach twists, awaiting her answer.

Eventually, the young tech gives an uneasy nod. Angela's body nearly goes boneless with relief.

"Lovely," she remarks briskly. "There is a button in Kielholz's office. It is under the false bottom of the third left drawer. Do you understand?"

Justine just stares back at her. She nods numbly.

"I need you to go and press it," Angela tacks on, lifting her eyebrows. "Can you do that?"

Justine's expression tightens. "But…but Dr. Kielholz won't be there…and his office is in Ortho—"

Angela grits her teeth against an annoyed sigh. She loves the little tech—Justine is a hard worker and learns fast—but _god_ the girl can drag her feet when she wants to. She lets go of her shoulders to pull a set of key cards out of her pocket, sorting through them briefly before removing one to hand to the tech.

"Dr. Ziegler, this is _very_ illegal—"

"Just trust me, Justine, please."

"There are _cameras."_

"I will take care of that."

The young woman peers up at her with owlish brown eyes.

"What will the button _do?"_ she asks tentatively.

Angela blows out a sharp breath, glancing over her shoulder, vaguely paranoid.

"Honestly? Probably nothing," she answers in a clipped voice.

Justine's nose wrinkles in confusion. "Then why do you want me to push it?"

Angela turns back around, leveling her forceful gaze at the tech.

"Because," she explains, voice like struck steel, words like hot iron, "I want to know exactly who I am up against." She tilts her head, the new angle throwing shadows across her pale face, darkening her calm expression with a wraith-like presence. _"Begreifen?"_

Justine stares at her, eyes blown wide with fear, before managing a shaky nod and taking off once more, holding the key in a white-knuckle grip.

Angela watches her go. In a perfect world, she would not have involved anyone, but this way she has one less errand to run here. She turns on her heel, hastening back down the hall. She has to move quickly. She won't get another chance like this.

Her office is tucked away, deeper into the hospital, a few halls down from the research labs. It's dangerously close to the trauma ward, but she only has to duck into one vacant room on her way there, avoiding a pair of RNs who appear to be leaving and are complaining about Müller's potential promotion. She slips out once they're long gone, hurrying forward.

Her office door is closed, but unlocked, which sends her heart hammering in her chest. The paranoid part of her stews in the back of her mind.

 _They knew you'd come back. They're waiting for you._

She pushes her way in, frowning at the casual disarray of her things—just messy enough to make it seem normal. Whoever tossed her office clearly didn't know her, or know that she kept all her papers and files in strict order. She finds some solace in this—at least it wasn't an inside job. Anyone who worked with her would have known better.

She steps carefully through the dark office, making her way around the desk to where a mannequin dressed in her Valkyrie suit used to sit beside the filing cabinet.

The space is empty.

 _"Verdammt,"_ she curses lowly.

She hears the cold click of a gun being cocked and goes still.

"You should not have come back, Doctor." An accent. American, it sounds like. Angela works her jaw, fingers flexing around empty air, her Caduceus Blaster suddenly heavy where it's tucked away, out of easy reach.

"It certainly does seem that way," she replies dryly.

The man scoffs. "Turn around," he orders.

Angela hesitates. She hears him take a step forward.

"I said _turn around,"_ the man says again, more forcefully this time. _"Now!"_

"I know my worth," Angela rushes out, mind spinning as she stares straight ahead, eyes narrowed, scrambling for an escape plan. "You will not kill me."

"Turn. Around." His voice is heavy and slow with anger, turning the order into two separate words that ring with authority.

Drawing a deep breath, Angela spins lightly on her heel, tucking stray strands of hair behind her ear. It's still dark in the room, and she squints through the gloom to make out the face of a man she doesn't recognize.

"Evening," she greets him lowly, accent darkening her tone. "May I ask what you are doing in my hospital?"

The man scoffs again, rolling his eyes, and Angela quickly drops her hands to ghost across the underside of her desk. She gives it an experimental tug, and the desk gives—lifting up slightly at her touch. It's heavy, naturally, but not nailed down at least.

"Hands up!" the man barks, and Angela obeys, hands appearing on each side of her head, expression calm and carefully fixed.

"There is no reason to shout," she reasons, lifting a brow. "You have nothing to fear—I am a terrible shot."

His eyes narrow. "Where's your gun?"

She tips her head back, gesturing somewhat unhelpfully to where her Caduceus Blaster is tucked into the waistband of her pants.

The man eyes her suspiciously before stepping forward, no doubt intending to take it from her.

"Where'd you send that girl?" he asks.

Angela stares him down evenly. "I have no idea what you are talking about."

He sneers. "They found her inside some orthopedic office—"

Something in her desk suddenly starts ringing loudly—a high, piercing whistle. They both wince at the unexpected noise, and he instinctually lowers his weapon to it.

"What the fuck is that?" he demands, suddenly panicked.

"It sounds like someone is trying to contact me," Angela remarks, keeping her tone casual despite her pounding heart. She glances up at him. "If you promise not to shoot me, I would be happy to answer it."

"Just shut it off!" he shouts, bringing his free hand up to cover one ear.

Angela obliges, quickly tugging open one of the lower drawers, reaching towards the noise. The man watches her closely, gun at the ready.

She pulls out a sleek communication device and flips it over. Its large screen lights up the dim room, reflecting in Angela's eyes, making them gleam.

It vibrates in her hand, still whistling shrilly, screen filled with the image of the Overwatch logo.

* * *

still adding the chapters I forgot to post! I'm on tumblr at dominodebt or midwestern-duchess!

check out my ao3 account for more detailed author's notes because ff's formatting isn't my favorite!


	4. four

McCree inches to the mouth of the cave, peering out.

He tilts his head, Peacekeeper glinting in the noonday sun as he lifts it ever so slowly, squinting one eye as his mind races through distance and trajectory and recoil and all kinds of things that he understands perfectly well but loves to pretend he's clueless about.

 _"_ _They say you're the best shot in the Deadlock Gang,"_ the waitress had told him many years ago, when his hat had been several sizes too big and all he wanted in the world was a damn beard.

He'd just offered her an easy smile, accepting the coffee she'd placed before him.

 _"_ _Me?"_ he'd replied, and _god_ he'd been good at that innocent lilt back then. " _I don' know much about that, ma'am. I ain't so good at math or physics or gee-oh-metry."_

Weeks later, he'd try the same line on Gabriel Reyes.

It hadn't gone so well.

His eyes pass over the group of thugs in the middle of the freeway—well, _abandoned_ freeway. Nobody uses 66 anymore—sitting amongst the guts of a trashed van, squabbling like magpies over the parts.

One of them—a skinny beanpole of a girl with tattoos all up her pale arms and a nasty scar on her bare stomach—reaches for the piece that had caught McCree's interest in the first place, and he tenses as he watches her thin fingers curl around a hunk of metal that armored the vehicle.

She turns it over in her hands, and his gaze catches on the Overwatch logo spray-painted on the side.

"Thought this wreck was fresh," the girl calls to the others. One boy—a tall, broad figure with a chiseled jaw and sharp eyes—glances over his shoulder, glancing at the piece in her hands.

"It was," he says, voice low and rough, and turns his back.

"Then what the fuck's this Overwatch shit?" she demands. "They've been out of it for what—years?"

"Who gives a shit?" another boy speaks up, lifting his head from the mess of screws he's sorting though. "Strip it and be done with it."

McCree's chest grows tight. Why _would_ the Overwatch logo be on a new truck? And why would it be in Deadlock country?

He steps forward again, pulling his hat low to his eyes, feeling the familiar surge of adrenaline as he lifts his revolver, all five thugs in sight—

A harsh, jarring ring goes up suddenly, shattering the silence of the canyon and startling McCree so badly he almost discharges his weapon. The noise continues—loud and shrill, like a goddamn _train_ whistle—and every eye turns to the idiot in a cowboy hat sticking his face out of the cave.

Eyes blown wide in panic, McCree dives headfirst into a combat roll that wouldn't have won any prizes, but keeps him from getting his damn head blown off his shoulders as the thugs let loose a smattering of bullets in the direction of the noise. He shoves himself roughly to his feet, boots pounding against the packed, sun-dried earth as he hurls himself out of the cave and into the daylight, sprinting past them and aiming for the safety of the diner.

He ducks inside, tipping his hat hastily to the old woman behind the counter—she's known him for ages, she's not going to kick him out—and glances over his shoulder to make sure the thugs haven't pursued him, that same noise still ringing out sharply.

"And just _what_ is that unholy racket?" the woman calls, dark hair streaked silver and twisted into a thick braid that curls over her shoulder. She grabs a chipped mug from under the counter and reaches for the coffee pot, arching an eyebrow. "Besides those damn boots of yours."

"Hello to you too, Mrs. Sawyer," McCree mutters. He approaches the counter, spurs jangling with each step.

"Runnin' from the law again, Mr. McCree?" Sawyer asks. Her eyebrows knit together as he settles in a stool, a look of stark irritation crossing her features. "And I am _serious_ about that noise. Shut it off or get outta my diner."

He frowns, reaching into his pocket to fish out the communication device he hasn't touched in ages. He'd forgot he'd had it on him, to be honest. He'd meant to try and pawn it off for some quick cash, but never seemed to get around to it.

He flips the thing over, only half surprised when he sees the screen lit up with the Overwatch logo.

Fuckin' _figures._

"Naw, runnin' from those damn kids," he mutters, and smashes the device against the counter, silencing it.

Sawyer eyes his sudden action with a wary look—she has a low tolerance for violence in her diner, and a high powered rifle that keeps things that way—but seems to let it go.

"Deadlock Gang's been reforming for months now, Jesse," she tells him sagely, pouring him a cup as he stares down at the remains of the communication device. "You oughta know that."

"I _knew_ I shoulda thrown this fuckin' thing away," he grumbles, scowling darkly at the fractured screen, clearly distracted.

"You watch your goddamn mouth in my diner, Mr. McCree," Sawyer chides him, arching an eyebrow.

"Yes, ma'am," he mutters back, and reaches for the mug of coffee.

-0-

"And over here," the man steps along, glancing over his shoulder to make sure he's being followed. "Is the Commander John Morrison exhibit."

An interested murmur rises up from the small group of guests he's herded through the museum, and the tour guide stands off to the side of the glass display case as a few guests lift their phones or snap photos on their holo-lenses.

"We have the most complete set of the Commander's belongings," the tour guide rattles off, idly watching as a young boy with dark eyes stares up at the great blue coat that hangs on a mannequin inside the glass, clutching his father's leg.

"Inside there is his coat, which he wore into almost every battle, his tactical visor, his medals, his heavy pulse rifle—all originals." The tour guide shuffles his feet, gauging the crowd. Some groups will stand at the Morrison exhibit all day, some like to leave immediately.

Personally, he's in the second camp. Something about the great coat—marred with bullet holes and scorch marks and bloodstains—makes him distinctly uncomfortable. Like he's showing off a ghost.

But he stands tall and straight beside the case, checking his watch briefly when one of the guests speaks up.

"Where did you recover these from?" she asks, voice layered in a rich Eastern accent, tilting her head as she studies him. She's older—face wrinkled and leathered—and wears a pair of glasses, the right lense covered with a large patch that he associates with an eyesight issue. Her headscarf is a brilliant red, and it gives her warm brown eye a flash of fire.

The tour guide smiles back kindly. "They were all recovered from the Gibraltar base, ma'am," he replies.

She arches a white eyebrow. "So you simply… _collected_ them?" she asks. "Pardon my brusqueness—but I doubt you found the coat and gun… _independently_ of the Commander himself, yes?"

The tour guide hesitates. A few other guests glance up, apparently interested.

"The items were donated," he answers carefully. A pause. "Anonymously. After the attacks." There's a kind of… _smudge_ beneath her left eye, he notices off-handedly, resolving to ignore it.

The woman gives him a hard look. "Anonymously?"

He spreads his hands. "Yes, ma'am. It really isn't all that uncommon. Many of our Overwatch pieces have been donated anonymously. Not everyone wants to be associated—"

He breaks off in surprise as a high, piercing noise suddenly rises up from the case. Guests immediately step back, eyes wide, some covering their ears. The father of the young boy quickly gathers his son up in his arms, staring warily at the case as the tour guide watches, completely dumbfounded.

The older woman, by contrast, steps closer.

"What _is_ that?" she demands, and the guide just shakes his head, hands shaking slightly. The noise continues, reverberating unpleasantly inside the glass.

"I…I don't know," he calls out over the noise. "I've never—this has never—" he shakes off his shock, grabbing blindly for his keys, sorting through them with shaking fingers as the noise wails on. A guard hustles over as one guest shrieks: "it's a _bomb!"_

The guide whirls around, holding up his hands. "No, no! It's fine, I promise! This museum is incredibly secure—only a limited amount of people have keys to the display cases—"

The guard pops the door to the display case open with his own set of keys as the guests back off more and more, save for the older woman. She hovers just behind the guide, amber eye bright and watchful.

"What—what is it?" the guide asks, as he watches the guard pat down the pockets of the Commander's coat, hunting for the source.

Eventually, he comes up with a silver, rectangular piece of technology.

"Pretty small bomb," the woman notes dryly.

The guard turns and the guide hurries to his side, peering at the item that is still giving off an awful, high-pitched ring. The guard passes it to the guide, who accepts it with fumbling hands.

It's a communication device, it seems—sleek and silver. The tour guide turns it over and nearly drops it as the Overwatch logo stares back at him—bright and defiant as the device keeps whistling shrilly.

-0-

The Antarctic wind whips brutally against the walls of Overwatch's Ecopoint.

Inside, a shrill ringing echoes through the base. There are desks crowded with paperwork; computers filled with data that sit idle. Notes crowd every open space, whiteboards are covered in calculations and predictions.

Everything is covered in a fine layer of dust. There is not a soul in sight.

The ringing continues.

The device's owner—lying still in her cryostasis state—doesn't respond.

Outside the pod, a small Chinese flag is printed beneath the name: 周美玲 / Mei-Ling Zhou.

The communication device rings and rings and rings—the noise swallowed up by the howl of the wind.

-0-

Widowmaker's communication device pulses gently against her hip, and she rolls her eyes.

 _Dieu l'aide._

"What do you want?" she snarls into the device. She has no patience for the little shadow on her best day, but especially not moments before she's leaving for a mission.

"Are you at the base?" Sombra asks, somewhat breathlessly.

Widowmaker cocks an interested eyebrow. No snarky greeting? No hint of sarcasm? Very curious. She slows her pace, lingering at the door.

"Base?" she echoes, glancing around the room she and Reaper sometimes cohabitate.

"Yes, base," Sombra repeats, and Widowmaker's lips curve at the strained edge to her voice. It seems the little shadow is somewhat stressed. How odd. "That French _dungeon_ that you and Reaper haunt."

"Then yes, I am here," Widowmaker replies breezily. She picks at a nail, shifting her weight. "Did you need something, _gosse?_ I'm on a schedule."

"What the fuck is—forget it, whatever, don't care," Sombra curses idly in her own language as Widowmaker listens to her wild typing. "A signal is trying to get to something in your little hidey hole. A damn strong one, too."

This catches the sniper's attention, and she stills, ocher eyes sweeping the simple room.

"What kind of signal?" she asks slowly.

"I don't fucking _know!"_ Sombra snaps. "It's encrypted ten different _fucking_ ways and runs on some old-as-shit system that's been outdated for a _decade_ and has all kinds of bullshit protection and defenses and _who even uses Oracle anymore anyway that shit sucks ass and everyone knows it—"_

 _"_ _Sombra,"_ Widowmaker snaps, cutting the younger woman off. "Why did you call me?"

The hacker huffs a sigh, seemingly composing herself.

"I've blocked it," she explains. "For now, anyway. I don't think it's a virus, or malware. It's like…some weird activation system."

Widowmaker's lilac eyebrow climbs higher. "And what is it going to activate?"

"I don't know." Sombra practically spits the words. "But I gotta let it through soon, or it's gonna burn through my fuckin' tech."

"So this is a warning," Widowmaker muses.

"I don't know what the fuck is gonna happen when I let it through," Sombra tells her shortly. "So if you like your life, you might wanna bail."

"Where did the signal come from?" Widowmaker asks. "Surely you can figure _that_ out."

"Switzerland," Sombra answers tartly. _"Gilipollas."_

Widowmaker's slow-beating heart _stops_.

 _"_ _What?"_ she breathes.

"Oh, so you can call me a _gosse_ or whatever the fuck but the second _I_ give it _back_ to you—"

"Where in Switzerland?" Widowmaker demands, voice sharp and cold and cutting right across Sombra's complaint.

A few keystrokes. Widowmaker holds her breath.

"Zürich," she answers quickly. "A hospital, it looks like."

Widowmaker's eyes narrow.

"Sombra."

 _"_ _Qué?"_

"Let the signal through."

She can feel Sombra's hesitation—the little shadow plays coy, but Widowmaker knows she'd be just a _little_ lost without herself and Reaper.

"You sure?" Sombra asks dully. Widowmaker can hear her drumming her fingers on the other line. "It could easily be for a bomb, Widow. Like— _easily."_

"Do not call me that," Widowmaker tells her sharply. "Now let the signal through."

"Great. Then you and Reaper can _both_ be dead," she mutters, and there's a few distinct keystrokes—

Something in the base begins to ring. _Loudly._

"What the fuck is that?" Sombra shouts, easily hearing the ringing over Widowmaker's communication device.

Widowmaker steps through the room, heels clicking as she moves, and looms over the locker Reaper had claimed for himself.

It's unlocked—it would be pointless, for one thing, and under normal circumstances she doesn't give a good goddamn what the wraith keeps in his fucking _locker—_ and she smoothly tugs it open, listening as the rusted hinges creak in protest.

"Well?" Sombra demands impatiently. "Blown up yet?"

Widowmaker spares her no thought, sorting swiftly through piles of old things—most of them bearing the Overwatch logo—hunting for the communication device she knows is in here.

Her hand knocks against it and she quickly closes her slender fingers, pulling it out and watching as the large screen bathes the dim room in an artificial light.

The Overwatch logo seems to burn brightly in the poorly-lit room, washing out the color of her lilac skin.

"Sombra?"

"Still not dead?"

A taut smile that holds no humor. She'll kill that shadow someday, god help her.

"It seems the good doctor is still alive," Widowmaker murmurs. "And she is calling for help."

-0-

Genji very nearly falls off the mountain when his head begins to ring.

The noise is shrill and piercing and so sudden Genji gasps in surprises, shooting to his feet, eyes wide behind his visor as he scrambles to shut it off.

"It would seem someone would like to speak with you, my student," Zenyatta observes serenely, not losing an ounce of composure. "Urgently."

"Thank you, Master," Genji drawls back, rolling his eyes. A pause. "I am rolling my eyes."

Zenyatta hums contently. "I am aware."

Genji just huffs in annoyance and quickly manipulates some commands on the side of his helmet—head?

It's been years since he'd been reborn with this body, and he still can't decide which parts he takes off and which parts are…him.

The ringing stops, mercifully, and Genji squints as his visor turns opaque, and the Overwatch logo lights up.

 _No._

"The question _I_ raise," Zenyatta remarks smoothly. "Is who would put a communication device in the _head_ of another individual?"

"I asked her to," Genji mutters, dispelling the image of the logo and blinking as the light filters through his visor again. "In case…in case they needed me. In case _she_ needed me."

Zenyatta hums again.

"That is an alarming level of devotion, my student. One might even call it _unsettling."_

Genji whips his head around to scowl. "She saved my life!" he protests hotly. "What is _unsettling_ about wanting to help her and the organization that—?"

"Peace, Genji," Zenyatta soothes. He still hasn't dropped his meditation pose, and floats calmly in the air, completely unperturbed. "I said _one_ might call it such. Not _me."_

Genji just snorts. "Of course not."

If Omnics could smirk, his master would be sporting a pretty impressive one.

"So now you rush to the aid of an organization that is in ashes," Zenyatta muses. "How very noble."

Genji scowls. "Is aid and improvement not a core part of your teachings?" he demands. "Would you rather me stand by and watch as people who _need me—"_

"I believe I said it was _noble,"_ Zenyatta corrects.

Genji huffs again. "Yes, but you said it in _that tone."_

"This is the only tone I possess, my student. Anything else you hear is an illusion of your own creation."

Genji just sighs. "I am going to try and reach Dr. Ziegler," he explains stiffly.

"Pass on my greetings as well," Zenyatta calls as Genji begins the trek back to the temple. "Tell her I miss her calming presence, and my unrelenting humor is wasted on the current company."

"I am _rolling my eyes,_ Master."

-0-

Tracer holds her breath; guns gripped tightly in her hands and pointed up at the ceiling.

She is not alone in this house. She'd bet her life.

Whatever that _thing_ that Winston had caught on those cameras—that half-human, half-phantom, living shadow—is here.

Tracer sets her jaw, eyes skirting the living room.

And if it's here, there's a good chance it knows something about Mercy.

She creeps through the empty house—part of her knows this stealth business is pointless, her chronal accelerator glows like a _beacon_ in the gloom, but she doesn't know what else to do—guns at the ready.

If she's being honest with herself—and the ex-pilot always strives to do so—she's being stupid for a couple of reasons.

Reason one: she has made an assumption based on very, very shaky logic.

Reason two: _if_ —by some incredibly improbable miracle—she's actually _correct_ , then she's a sitting fucking duck and honestly deserves what's coming to her.

She flexes her fingers on the grips of her pistols and she swallows hard—wetting her lips like she's tasting her words.

"If you're in 'ere," she calls, almost startling herself with her own voice as it breaks the silence of the house. "Then come out." A pause. She steps out of the living room and into the kitchen.

"I know who you are." A bold claim. Also statistically unlikely. She forces another swallow down her dry throat. "I know who you _were."_

Silence answers her declaration. She'd kind of figured as much.

A shadow moves and Tracer's pulse pistols light up immediately—blazing brilliantly in the darkness as she fires off a round in the direction of the movement.

Stillness. She hears a shattering of glass and realizes she probably shot down one of Mercy's vases and makes a mental note to buy her a new one.

She's just about to reload and drift back into the main foyer when she sees the muzzle of a pistol materialize out of the darkness—aimed straight at her—and hastens to throw herself backwards in time—retracing her steps until she's back in the safety of the living room. She deftly reloads her guns, preparing to dart back in, when a shrill ringing noise pierces the quiet stillness, and Tracer rears away, gasping in alarm.

It's her comm. Her _Overwatch_ comm.

She quickly tucks her weapons away, digging the device out of her jacket pocket, eyes growing wide behind her goggles as she takes in the sight of the Overwatch logo—nearly blinding in the darkness of the house.

 _"_ _Mercy,"_ Tracer whispers, and in a blink of blue light—she's gone.

After a beat of silence, Reaper steps from the gloom, pulling the smoke and shadow taut back into his physical form, watching the space she'd been before—with a growl of annoyance—he vanishes once more.

* * *

last of the chapters I forgot to post! I'm going on vacation so I'm not sure when I'll be back but I hope y'all have a good new year!


	5. five

The man's eyes are still trained on the shrieking piece of tech in Angela's hand when she hauls off and smacks him in the face with it.

The communication device is heavy and hard and she slams it against his nose, hearing a satisfying _crack_ as she does so.

The man shouts—the sound almost lost in the wail of the now-bloodied device—and when he ducks his head to cover his face with his hand, Angela seizes the gun in his grasp, yanking it out of his limp fingers and pulling back to whip him hard across the face.

His head snaps to the side—skin already reddening—and Angela skirts around the desk to deliver a sharp kick to his knee. His leg buckles and he seizes the front of her desk to keep from falling. Angela slams the device—still ringing painfully in her ears—down onto the fingers curled around the edge of her desk. With a sharp hiss of a pain and an unintelligible string of expletives, he drops his hand, falling hard onto his good knee.

Angela hurls herself out of the room, swapping his gun for her Blaster as she runs through the halls, bringing the communication device to her lips.

"This is Mercy. Reporting in."

The ringing immediately stops, but she can still hear it reverberating in her head. The screen dims for a moment—Overwatch logo vanishing—before it's replaced by a set of figures.

47.3769° N, 8.5417° E

Coordinates. Coordinates to Zürich _—_ where the distress signal that Justine had punched had been activated.

She clicks the device off, dropping it in the pocket of her lab coat. Let the remnants of Overwatch make what they will of _that._

-0-

 _"_ _Entschuldigen Sie! Das ist—!"_

The shot Reaper takes could almost be called _careless_. The guard drops lifelessly to the ground.

"Didn't wanna wait for a translation?" Sombra remarks smartly in his ear.

"Stop talking," Reaper rumbles back, stepping over the new corpse, footfalls heavy in against the concrete. "And I know German."

 _"_ _Ooooh,_ fancy bilingual boy over here," Sombra murmurs back, smirking to herself as she reclines back in her office chair. She taps idly on a holographic keypad. "Though I guess _Señor Reyes_ knows a bit more than that, hm?"

Reaper stills, smoke billowing out from his trench coat and pooling at his feet.

 _"_ _Don't_ call me that."

Sombra likes to joke and poke fun and will never _ever_ miss an opportunity to send Reaper the address of a funeral parlor. He'll growl out, _"Death walks among you,"_ and she'll drawl back, _"Yeah well Death took his sweet fucking time, didn't he?"_

She'll mock and be contrary, and he'll take it all in a stewing silence, occasionally barking or snapping back, but on the whole, doesn't do a lot to dissuade her.

But sometimes?

Sometimes he _sounds_ like Death.

"Whatever, _jefe,"_ she shoots back, trying to disguise her alarm with her usual snark. Her eyes cut to the monitor displaying Angela Ziegler's office. "You better hurry, your doctor's on the move."

Reaper dissipates—she'll never get over the sight of him just _dropping_ his physical form, arms and legs and body all lost in a sudden swirl of smoke—and Sombra sits back to watch.

Her eyes, on occasion, do drift over to another monitor. This one keeping tabs on a young girl in a hotel room, snarling what has to be Korean curses as she struggles to revive her laptop.

Sombra taps a clawed finger to her cheek, dully intrigued as she watches the other woman.

 _Now who_ , the shadow muses, _would have the_ _ **audacity**_ _to bug the computer of the most famous figure in video games?_

On the monitor, the girl snaps something at the empty hotel room and delivers a swift kick of frustration to a pink beanbag chair with rabbit ears.

She wonders if the gamer will figure it out. She certainly hopes she does.

Sombra's always a fan of other people doing the legwork for her.

-0-

"Alejandra, _what_ are you doing up there?"

"Nothing, mama!" the girl hollers back.

She's settled at the very edge of her bed, covers and blankets kicked off in favor of posters and pictures spread around her. She has the remote to her clunky old holo-vid in her hand, eyes trained with laser focus on the screen as she rewatches the news clip for the hundredth time.

The man on the screen—some older gentlemen with no hair and a somewhat squashed nose—is being interviewed. From what Alejandra's gathered, he's the head curator of the Overwatch museum in New York.

He's speaking urgently—rings on his hands glinting in the bright studio lights as he rambles on and on. Alejandra tunes him out until he gets to a key phrase—

 _"_ _There was no terrorist attack—no attack of any kind. The item recovered is an old piece of Overwatch technology that is outdated and obsolete. There is nothing to be worried about—"_

"Stop!" she yells, and punches the pause button on the remote.

The frame freezes, the man being interviewed suspended mid-speech, but Alejandra pays him to mind. She sits forward—almost nose-to-nose with the monitor—searching.

Her eyes pass over the crowd that loiters in the background. Some kind of police perimeter has been set up, and a whole cast of characters stand on the other side of it. A man holding his son. A pair of what look like identical twins chatting excitedly with a reporter from a different news station. Alejandra searches and searches, looking past each member of the public, worrying her lip—

She gasps when she finally sees it.

A woman in a brilliant scarlet headscarf, her back to the camera, paused in the act of glancing over her shoulder.

Alejandra had been already pausing and rewinding and pausing again to try and get a good look at the device in question, which was being examined by members of the NYPD in the bottom right corner of the screen, but then she'd seen the woman take a quick look and had caught sight of what she _swore_ was an eye patch.

She'd been trying to freeze the moment ever since, and now that she has it, she can hardly contain herself.

Ana Amari. Ana _fucking_ Amari.

Alejandra would bet her life. Or at least her vintage _Los Protectores_ poster which she's pretty sure is worth more anyway.

How many older, Middle Eastern women with eye patches were just wandering around New York? How many were conveniently at the location of the Overwatch museum? The _same day_ that some old device apparently came back to life?

Nope. Alejandra didn't buy it.

She glances down at her bed, shifting through some of the posters and old magazine cutouts to find the picture she'd pulled down from her wall in her excitement. It's from a cover story done about Overwatch after the Omnic Crisis. Amari is featured prominently in the photo, wearing her uniform, rifle slung over her shoulder, holding the hand of her daughter.

Alejandra smiles wistfully for a moment. How cool would it be to have a _war_ hero as your mom? And not just any war hero, but—

"Ana Amari?"

Alejandra shrieks, jumping about a foot as she catches herself on the edge of the dresser her holo-vid sits on, looking up with wide eyes to see her mother standing in the doorway with a frown.

"Mama, I _told_ you I wasn't _doing_ anything!" Alejandra whines.

Her mother casts a quick glance at the posters and pictures strewn around her bed, the paused news station, and the remote clutched in her daughter's hand.

"And by nothing, of course, you mean replaying the news over and over again." Her mother arches a brow.

 _"_ _Mama!"_

Her mother sighs, shaking her head. "I knew when I heard customers talking about that business at the museum you'd be up here, watching it—"

Alejandra's chest puffs up with angry bravado. "What's wrong with watching the news?" she demands hotly.

Her mother crosses her arms, lifting her chin. "Were you watching the news? Really? Can you tell me _anything_ that happened today that is _not_ related to Overwatch?"

Alejandra deflates, sinking back on her bed.

"It…it rained," she offers lamely.

Her mother lifts an expectant eyebrow.

"And…and Ana Amari is alive!" Alejandra rushes out, cheeks turning red under her mother's scrutiny.

 _This_ makes her mother pause. _"What_ did you say?"

Alejandra fidgets—her mother always has a way of making her ideas sound totally stupid.

"On the news report," she explains, pointing. "There— _look_ , there's a woman with an eye patch, and I know you're going to say, _'Alejandra, the world is_ _ **full**_ _of eye patches,'_ even though there's _no_ way you've ever seen one, and I _know_ an eye patch doesn't immediately mean Ana Amari but I was gonna enhance the image and look for her tattoo but then you came _in_ and—"

Her mother cuts her off with a sharp snap of her fingers. _"Escúchame,_ Alejandra. You are… _obsessed_ with this—"

Alejandra rears back like she'd been slapped, eyes narrowed, mouth falling open in anger.

"I am not _obsessed,_ mama! _You_ were the one who told me—!"

"What difference does it make?" her mother shouts. She gestures back at the paused holo-vid. "Suppose that is Captain Amari. What does it matter? Overwatch is _gone,_ Alejandra, and—"

 _"_ _What difference?"_ Alejandra repeats, voice going shrill in disbelief and anger. "What difference? Mama, they thought she was _dead!"_

"Alejandra—"

"She was your _hero,_ mama! You don't care _at all?"_

Her mother grits her teeth. "Alejandra, Captain Amari has been dead for _years_. I don't know _what_ has possessed you to pursue this—"

"What if she wasn't?" Alejandra bursts out. "What if it was all a lie? Wouldn't that be newsworthy? Huh? Wouldn't that be something to…to _talk_ about?"

They stare at each other, anger hanging thick and heavy in the air between them.

On Alejandra's desk, amongst her mess of papers and supplies and battered laptop, a speaker flips itself on with a chirp.

Her mother sighs, reaching up to rub her temples, muttering what sounds vaguely like a prayer under her breath. "What now?"

"Nothing," Alejandra mutters, lower lip pushed out in a pout. She gestures unenthusiastically to the speaker on her desk. "It's just Dr. Zhao's Sunday report."

Her mother pulls her hand back to fix her daughter with a perplexed look. "It's _what?"_

Alejandra heaves a very put-upon sigh, rolling her eyes up to the ceiling as the radio announcer introduces the segment. "Every Sunday night, they call Dr. Zhao—y'know, the climatologist in Antarctica? Well, they call her and ask her about her work or whatever."

Her mother frowns. "And you…listen? Every Sunday?"

Alejandra shrugs limply, still avoiding her mother's eye. "I mean, I haven't heard all of them, but yeah. I set up my speaker to play it whenever it comes on."

Her mother lifts an eyebrow. "Is that why you never help downstairs on Sunday nights? You're here listening to this?"

"Our world is worth fighting for," Alejandra defends under her breath, tears stinging at her eyes.

 _"_ _Dr. Zhao! Can you hear us?"_

 _"_ _Yes, Heidi! Uh, hello! And hello to all the people listening! N_ _ǐ_ _h_ _ǎ_ _o!"_

"Alejandra, I really think—"

"Wait!"

Her mother blinks, clearly _not_ pleased with being cut off, but Alejandra raises a hand for silence, ear cocked towards the speaker.

 _"_ _How's it going at the Ecopoint, Doctor?"_

 _"_ _Well, it's negative twenty-five here—that's, um, in Celsius, by the way—so it's a bit warmer than last time!"_

 _"_ _That's wonderful, Doctor. You stay warm there, don't you?"_

Alejandra's mother sighs, making to move out of the room. "I don't have time for this, I still have to close up shop—"

"No, no listen!" Alejandra urges, grabbing her mother's arm. "In a second, she's gonna say the wrong word!"

 _"—_ _of course, it is not without the graceful—er,_ _ **gracious**_ —" there's a round of somewhat forced giggles _"—sorry, sorry, I'm, uh, much more accustomed to speaking to myself or to weather drones than actual people—"_

Alejandra's mother frowns, honest confusion flickering across her face for a moment, but she pulls her arm free all the same. "Alejandra—"

"Wait! Please!" Alejandra begs, pointing at the speaker. "They're gonna cut her off! Listen!"

 _"_ _We thank you very much for your time, Dr. Zhao."_

 _"_ _Oh, but, I never got to mention—"_

 _"_ _I'm afraid that's all the time we have for today. Best wishes to you and your team."_

The segment ends, and Alejandra's speaker shuts itself off with a chirp.

Mother and daughter stare at each other.

"I'd already heard that report," Alejandra explains in a rush. "Mama, they've already played that conversation!"

Her mother heaves a sigh. "Ale _jan—"_

"They say they call her every Sunday!" Alejandra argues, jabbing a finger at the speaker. "It's live! That's the whole point! That recording is from _before_ I even started listening to them! The past interviews are all stored online—I can show you—"

She makes to move for her laptop, but her mother intercepts her.

"Alejandra."

"Move, mama, please! I just want to show you!"

She accidentally knocks the remote off the bed in her attempts to rise, and the holo-vid begins playing once more when the device hits the floor.

 _"_ _Chairman, do you think this has anything to do with the disappearance of Dr. Angela Ziegler?"_

 ** _"_** ** _Absolutely not._** _This is a prank in poor taste, and is in no way related to Overwatch, I assure you. No one at this museum has any involvement with that organization, or any of its members."_

 _"_ _Mr. Chairman, do you think this is related to the break-in a few weeks back? Do you think it's possible that the perpetrators planted the device—?"_

"Alejandra, please. You need to just—"

"You don't believe me," Alejandra whispers. "You think I'm _crazy."_

Her mother pauses, looking down at her daughter.

Too old to be a child. Too young to be an adult. A bright slip of a girl with a heart of gold and a notorious gang as next-door-neighbors.

Alejandra sits back hard on her bed, glaring down at her hands gathered limply in her lap.

Her mother thinks back to her own childhood. How her room had been covered—wall-to-wall—with posters of Ana Amari. How she'd stay up past her bedtime to listen to interviews, watch her with rapt attention any time she appeared on the television. How she used to dream the Captain would just wander into her father's bakery one day.

Alejandra won't lift her eyes, but her mother can see the shine of tears on her face.

It's just her and Alejandra. Who else does she have if not her mother?

"I think," she says quietly. "That you should find out which broadcast got repeated, and see if you can find out if it was an honest mistake. Maybe they couldn't get a connection to Antarctica for some reason, so they had to recycle an old one."

She offers a small smile as Alejandra looks up from her hands. _"Or_...maybe it's a conspiracy by Talon."

Alejandra's mouth drops open.

"I have a lot of books on Captain Amari," she goes on, crossing her arms and leaning on the doorway, smiling softly at the look of astonishment on her daughter's face. "As you pointed out, she was always my favorite. Maybe there's something worthwhile tucked away in those pages, hm?"

-0-

A perky pop tune plays from the pocket of the woman with the red headscarf, and she quickly steps back from the crowd to answer it.

"Jack," she greets the caller warmly. "How good to hear from you."

She pauses as the person on the other line talks back, before shaking her head with a smile.

"I didn't know you'd taken to watching the news. I always thought you considered reporters to be the absolute scum of the earth." She walks as she talks, and a man with a press pass looks up to give her an annoyed look as she passes him, clearly overhearing her less-than-stellar description.

"Oh, _please."_ She waves a dark, leathery hand through the air. "No one is looking for anything, Jack. You're being paranoid."

She rolls her good eye, smoothly slipping out of the museum behind a group of high schoolers on a field trip as the caller talks back. Something he says makes her pull a face, and she makes sure to move out of earshot before replying.

 _"_ _I_ think you're underestimating her." A pause. She huffs with annoyance. "I _know_ you didn't ask for my opinion, Jack. But I am giving it to you _anyway_ and you are _welcome_ for it."

"She's smarter than you give her credit for," the woman murmurs. "She always has been. To be honest, that's one area Gabe always did better in than you." A smile that's all teeth. "Not that you asked, of course."

More listening. Her gaze is briefly drawn to a mother holding hands with her daughter as they cross the street.

"I will do what I can, Jack, but I am telling you—I have been right about this since the beginning." Another pause. Another huff. "I do _not_ say that about everything."

She smiles, laugh lines crinkling at the corners of her eyes. "Of course. _Tosbeho 'ala khair."_

She hangs up the phone, sinking onto a bench with a heavy sigh, frowning down at a particularly fat pigeon that coos at her curiously from the ground.

"He's such an idiot," she tells the bird conversationally. "And he _never_ listens."

The bird cocks its head, considering her as she sits back, crossing her arms.

"You should have been there when he had _Gabe_ to rile him up," she mutters, shaking her head. "Absolute nightmares, the both of them."

The pigeon coos and goes back to searching for food.

* * *

 _IT'S TWENTY-SEVENTEEN AND I'M BACK_

Look Alejandra is the biggest fucking Overwatch fangirl okay like that's canon.

This almost didn't get uploaded because lol I don't know if you can tell from my username but I live in the Midwest and we had a hell of an ice storm that knocked out my internet for like, more than twenty-four hours. Winter is some crazy shit.

Anyway, I know this chapter is pretty meh, but the next one's a fuckin whopper (can't keep Mercy and Reaper apart forever now can I?) so that'll be our trade-off. I also go back to university tomorrow, so I'm not sure _when_ that update will come, but it won't be a crazy long wait. Maybe a couple of weeks just to get back in the swing of things?

 _also like idk if any of y'all have ever dropped your phone on your foot/face but like that shit hurts so anyone telling me getting smacked in the literal face with a hunk of technology wouldn't be a big deal can square up_


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